Talking through the walls, whispering endearing acts of heresy; (for the most holy things are said in secret) he's tricking and flipping the air around, but will his gales blow stronger than the Sun's fire burns?
Who could be satisfied with clovers of their own? I want clovers of yours, and yours: but I must not let this greed take root in my soil. For if it is fertilized, I will have to uproot my whole skin— truth is always becoming, truth would look nice on my body (to become a spiritual young woman, I must make my mind like I make my bed, I must cleanse my heart as I cleanse my plates—I must, so to present my body as the ultimate sacrifice)— shedding the old, and the new glistens like moistened lips. "Just a vehicle," I whisper to myself, looking into the window out my bedroom.
Ceiling is bright blue, decorated with moving clouds and stars: it is night and day in my land.